


A Shining in the Shadows

by Verecunda



Series: A Better Shape [4]
Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Time, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13779354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: "I don't want there to be any reserve between us, not tonight."





	A Shining in the Shadows

The clock downstairs struck ten, sounding clear, almost startling, through the house, and breaking the silence of the study. Glad of an excuse to break the monotony, Amelia laid down her pen and rubbed her eyes. Her mind was quite numbed with figures. She should put them down now, she knew, before she grew any more tired, but there was nothing else for her to do. It was one of those rare evenings when she had no other engagements, and she was simply filling time until she retired to bed.

She had done remarkably well since her return to the world, and she was busy enough that normally she had very little time to dwell upon the past. But she could never escape it entirely, and it was on nights like this, when she was alone in the house with no one else to talk to, and nothing else to occupy her, that she was most susceptible to its influence. It was then that her memories would loom out of the darkness, gathering about the edges of her mind as the shadows gathered in the corners of the room, beyond the warm light of the hearth. They were hovering there now, with their echoes of old anguish and madness, waiting for any chance she gave them to close in and entrap her once more.

Frowning, she shook her head, pushed the memories back, and returned defiantly to her work. She carried on in that way for a little longer, until at last there came a soft knock at the door, and Mary entered.

“Mr. Jaggers, miss.”

“Jaggers!” She was on her feet at once. He came in behind Mary, perfectly sober and businesslike, and waited until she had left them, closing the door quietly behind her, before letting his face soften.

“Good evening.”

Amelia smiled, and leaned up to kiss him. “And good evening to you. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, sir?”

“Is this an inconvenient time?” he asked, casting a glance at her desk, where her papers lay in a state of organised disarray.

“Hardly. You came at just the right time. Any longer, and I would have started seeing double, and vastly overestimating this quarter’s returns.”

That won a smile from him. “And how is A. Havisham and Company?”

“Very well.”

“And A. Havisham in particular?”

“Better for seeing you,” she replied honestly. “More to the point, how is Mr. Jaggers? I thought you would have gone straight back to Gerrard Street tonight.”

“I meant to,” he conceded. Briefly, he brushed his fingers against the edge of her jaw, paused, then said, “I wanted to see you.”

This admission seemed to cost him, for he fell silent at that, stroking his thumb gently over the curve of her cheek. Catching the scent of his soap on his hand, stronger even than usual, she raised her own to cover it, and said, “How was court?”

“Interminable.”

“Interminable” was an understatement, to judge from his expression. He looked tired, and there was a heaviness about both his expression and manner. Gently, she lifted his hand from her cheek and took it between both of her own.

“Do you want anything, anything to eat? Shall I ring for tea?”

He shook his head. “I had something before I came.” At her narrowed eyes, he added, “I had Mrs Cratchit set by one of her mutton pies for me.”

Satisfied with this, she gave a nod. She had learned, soon after embarking upon their affair, that Jaggers was a bachelor woefully entrenched in his habits, and if left to his own devices, tended to sustain himself mainly on sandwiches eaten - standing - in moments snatched between his various engagements. She was set upon remedying this, but it was something of an uphill struggle.

“Why don’t you go through?” she said, nodding towards the drawing room door. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

He assented and withdrew, leaving her to find a suitable place to tie up her accounts for the night and put her papers away in some semblance of order. Upon entering the drawing room herself, however, it was to find Jaggers standing before the chimney-piece and frowning into the fire, his forefinger caught between his teeth. It usually took some time for him to thaw after spending a day in the police-courts, but this was a dark mood, even for him. So intent was he upon his own thoughts that he hardly seemed to hear her as she crossed the room to join him, and was only roused by the touch of her hand on his arm, which was very tense beneath her fingers. Seeing her, his expression cleared a little, though the heaviness still hung about him.

Quietly, she asked, “Was it the Mugby case again today?”

“That,” he said, “and the inevitable chaos now that the Anglo-Bengalee Company has blown up in everyone’s faces - though there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

“I’m glad I kept well away from that,” she said, thinking of all those people who had found themselves ruined overnight. “The whole thing seemed off from the very start. The money’s all gone, I suppose?”

“All gone,” he agreed grimly. “And Mr. Montague, too, it would seem. The whole thing is a debacle. And as for court, well…”

He looked away, the shadow coming back into his face. She asked no more questions. It was a hard thing to know that there were parts of Jaggers’ heart that must remain closed to her, confidences he could never share with her, simply because they were not his own to share. He only ever discussed general particulars of his cases, those which were already a matter of public record, but even these were enough for her to know that day in, day out, he was confronted with humanity in all its most hideous guises: criminals of the worst sort - even murderers - and, worst of all, innocents, especially children, trapped by circumstances and laws beyond their control. She knew how it weighed on him, and it dismayed her that he must bear the greater part of that weight alone, especially since it included her own concerns. It was in direct opposition to all her ideas of how such a partnership as theirs ought to work.

Silently, she increased her touch on his arm. At that, he turned back to her, and with a sigh that was half-weariness, half-relief, he took her in his arms, burying his face in her hair and breathing her in, holding her tightly as if she were his only lifeline. Her heart ached, and she brought her own arms tightly about him. She knew the formidable face he showed to the rest of the world, and she was moved that he should place so much trust in her, of all people. She was determined to be worthy of it.

Something of her earlier feelings must have shown in her manner, for after a short time, Jaggers asked suddenly, “Is something the matter?”

Cursing his sharpness, she shook her head. “It’s nothing. Only… only thinking too much. It just comes out of nowhere, sometimes.”

She tried to speak lightly, to dispel his concerns, but already she could feel the reserve coming over him, the deep-rooted dread of overstepping himself. Letting her go, he said, almost severely, “I’m sorry.”

“What on earth for?”

“For bringing Newgate back here with me.”

She touched his cheek. “I’d much rather you brought it here, rather than brooding over it all alone in that dreadful house of yours.”

The corner of his mouth gave a very faint twitch at that, but the rest of his face still bore that closed-up look that she knew only too well, and she had to bite back upon a rush of vexation.

“I know there are things you cannot tell me,” she said. “I would never ask that of you. But you needn’t bear everything by yourself, Jaggers. Why else did you come here tonight? You’re not alone.”

He drew a heavy sigh at that. “I know. But you are one thing, Amelia, and my profession is another. I don’t want it anywhere near you.”

Deliberately, she took his hand, threading their fingers together, and said softly, “Because of this?”

“Because of that.” He glanced down at their joined hands, then extricated himself. “You’ve seen enough of evil. I have no business bringing any more of it near you.”

“You have never brought any evil near me,” she replied at once. “Jaggers, you have never been anything but good, and kind, to me, even when I wasn’t willing to accept it.”

But he shook his head. “If there is anything good or kind in me, Amelia, it’s because you inspired it. It did not come from me.” He sighed. “There; it’s said.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” Now she took both his hands, holding them tightly and looking earnestly into his face. “Jaggers, you have never, not once, made me feel… tainted by my association with you. And believe me, I know - oh, God, I know - what it is to feel tainted.”

Despite herself, a whole host of unwelcome memories now came rushing in upon her. She remembered all too vividly how acute her shame had been when Compeyson’s true nature had been revealed to her, how dirty and cheap and used she had felt, how much like the trollop Arthur had once accused her of being. It was something she had returned to again and again during the years of her seclusion: she had watched as the dirt and dust gradually sullied the white of her bridal gown, and had imagined her own disgrace saturating her flesh in the same way for all to see.

Her breath came sharply; the next instant, appalled, she realised her eyes were hot with tears. Blinking them furiously back, she dared meet Jaggers’ eye, and saw the awful expression there. Every line of his face was still, but a pulse leaped in his throat.

“No.” Now it was his hands that tightened on hers, and in a low voice - low, but very fierce - he said, “It would take far more that Meriwether Compeyson to debase you in any way, Amelia.”

“Oh,” she retorted, “so he couldn’t, but _you_ could? Because if you truly believe you are worse than him, sir, then we have nothing to say to each other.”

For the space of a heartbeat, he simply stared at her. Then, all at once, a change came over his face, and with something very like wonder, he said, “You are the most singular woman I have ever known.”

“Singular,” she repeated, with a smile. “Well, that's high praise indeed.”

He kissed her then. No decorous kiss of greeting now, but one that warmed and deepened, an exquisite flush of heat blooming within her. She gasped against his mouth, and he answered by drawing her deep into his arms, urging her closer, even as she wound her own arms more tightly about his shoulders. The heat grew between them, making her head spin, until she had no choice to break away, breathless and trembling.

“Jaggers…” she breathed against his lips - then faltered. So many times before, when they were alone together like this and she could feel herself brimming over with more love than she knew what to do with, the question had been there, half-formed on her lips. And each time, it had died there unasked, her courage failing her at the last. For in the same moment, the past would cast its shadow over her, reminding her of the last time she had let herself be so consumed.

“Amelia?” He felt her hesitation and drew back, the better to see her face: careful, attentive - waiting, as he always did, for her. That thought, and the sight of him before her, filled her with new courage, and new determination. Compeyson had taken enough from her: she would not allow him to blight what happiness she meant to claim for herself now.

Holding fast to that thought, she drew a breath, and tried again. Raising her eyes to his, she gently cupped his cheek with her hand, and asked, softly, “Jaggers, will you stay with me tonight?”

He was so close she could feel his sharp intake of breath, and see the heat flare in his eyes - the very same heat she could feel within herself. But still he did not abandon his customary caution. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she replied at once, “yes. Oh, my love, I just - I don’t want there to be any reserve between us, not tonight.”

He was still regarding her closely, in that searching way that always made her wonder what it was in her that he was seeing. It was rather daunting to be the object of that look, but now, ignoring the pounding of her heart, she lifted her chin and met it steadfastly, pleased to let him see her.

“Please,” she asked again, “do you wish to stay?”

“I do.” There was something in his voice, something raw and helpless, as if the admission had been torn straight from his heart. The sound of it caused her own to ache, even as relief flooded through her.

“Well, then,” she said; and, with a smile, put out her hand for his.

Her initial determination had time to waver as she led him upstairs, but as soon as they were safely ensconced in the sanctuary of her bedroom, the door closed against the world outside, it returned in full, and she reached for him again. She was trembling still, every nerve in her body alight with excitement and apprehension, but running through them, every moment, was a sure, steady seam of confidence.

Her former experience of desire had been all fever and fool’s fire, a wild headlong rush that had scarcely left room for thought, let alone doubt or caution. She had sometimes wondered since if the reason for all that desperate passion was because there had been, even then, some unconscious, prescient part of her mind that had sensed that the man she adored was a mere phantasm; that if she didn’t clutch him close, he would simply vanish like mist.

There was nothing of that now. The feeling within her was no less insistent, no less inevitable, but now there was a wonderful languor to it, one kiss melting into the next, time to savour every moment and every sensation to the full. The fire in her room had already been lit against her coming up, warming the air, and she had time simply to enjoy how the dancing light made gold flecks in Jaggers’ dark eyes, picked out stray threads of auburn in his hair, and made a fascinating play of his features. Above all, she had time simply to delight in the familiarity, the sheer _certainty_ of him. There was nothing guarded now, nothing unsure. Compeyson, Newgate, every old sorrow and hurt, all were discarded, shed somewhere halfway across her dressing-room, along with his coat and her shawl, her jewels and his watch-chain.

Another kiss, and yet another, until all that was left was the heat, deepening with every heartbeat, and she could feel herself softening, the curves of her body seeking and melding with the planes of his. She turned her face to his, her lips following the high arch of his cheekbone, bestowing another kiss just under the mole beneath his eye. At the same time her hands, which had been resting against his chest, came up to his cravat. She glanced up, caught his eye with a smile. Then, slowly, she plucked out the pin and unknotted the silk, running it through her fingers and drawing it away, just in time to see the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Enchanted by the long exposed sweep of it, she couldn’t leaning in to brush her lips against it, feeling the shiver that passed through his body in response.

“Amelia—” And, oh, the sound of his voice went straight to her heart. His hands clasped her head, his long fingers sinking into her hair as he kissed her again, and again. Gently, he drew his hands through it, drawing out the combs and pins that held it up, until it fell loose and warm about her shoulders. He sifted his fingers through it, spread it out and watched the gleam of the candlelight upon it, all with a close deliberation that made her smile.

Then his fingers had left her hair, falling lower to run lightly along the delicate ridge of her collarbone, before dipping into the soft hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse fluttered, rapid and shallow. Her breath fled, for she knew he must feel it, and indeed, she saw his eyes go very dark, and his own lips part faintly. He drew her close again, his hands now at her waist, now at the small of her back, seeking out the contours of her body through her gown. They drifted, slowly, his touch soothing her even as it roused her, and she drifted along with it, sighing.

His lips, meanwhile, moved over her face, laying kisses to her brow, her eyelids, her cheeks, making a thorough inventory of the freckles about her throat and shoulders, before coming back to claim her mouth once more. She arched to meet him, and his hands slipped round to her back, running up the curve of her spine, lingering over the fastenings of her gown until she gave a soft moan of anticipation.

“Oh - please -”

It was enough. Slowly, with the same deliberation, he unfastened her bodice at the back, while she pulled at her sleeves in front, until their combined efforts succeeded in freeing her from it. After that, it required only a little finesse to ease her gown over her hips and let it fall about her feet in a heavy rush of silk taffeta.

With this summary action, she felt a momentary onset of shyness. Jaggers caught it, and he took her gently by the elbows, his face quite grave as he peered at her. “Are you still certain, Amelia?”

She gave a slightly incredulous laugh, and spread her arms. “I’m standing before you in my petticoats, sir. Is it not self-evident?”

“Ah, but answer the question.”

She laughed again, in earnest this time, and kissed him. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Another kiss, then she added, with a spark of mischief, “But I shall need your assistance in getting the rest of these layers off.”

He smiled. “Turn around, then.”

After their long neglect, the upper rooms of Satis House - her bedroom included - were full of draughts. It was a problem that had persisted, no matter how many times she engaged workmen to make repairs. But now, standing in the middle of the floor in nothing but her undergarments, twisting her hands together, she was flushed through and through, and her trembling had nothing to do with cold. Jaggers stood close at her back, his breath warm against the nape of her neck as he undid her petticoats, one after another, letting them drift down to join her gown on the floor. She gathered her hair over one shoulder, the better to let him come at her corset cover, and then at last, the corset itself, which he unlaced with meticulous care, until she was breathless with anticipation. Then that was gone, and he was easing her chemise from her shoulders. Lightly, he grazed the very tips of his fingers over the soft skin between her shoulder blades: the merest flicker of touch that sent a delightful shiver reeling through her, and she gasped his name aloud.

Greatly encouraged by this, he placed a kiss behind her ear, then lower, down the curve of her neck, each one drawing a sigh from her, until she could no longer help herself, but turned in his arms to catch him in another kiss. As she did so, she laid a hand on his shoulder, putting him gently at arm’s length. Quickly, she used the space to remove her stockings and drawers - for it really was impossible to be alluring in one’s drawers - and he offered her his hands to help her step out of the crumpled pool of skirts around her feet. As she did, she saw how his eyes flickered downwards, taking in the shape of her body through the fine linen of her chemise, and it sent a bright thrill right through her blood. In a bid to steady herself against it, she raised her hands to his chest, playing abstractedly with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“I fear you have me at something of a disadvantage, sir,” she murmured.

“You do?”

“A little, yes.”

Quietly, he asked, “Do you wish me to remedy that?”

She smiled, flickering her eyes up. “If you please.”

“Very well.” He raised an eyebrow, but drew away to give them both room. First he divested himself of his waistcoat, then set about shrugging out of his braces. Amelia watched, enthralled. There was a contained elegance in all his movements - and the thought made her smile, knowing how mortally offended he would be if he knew she had even thought such a word as _elegance_ in connection with him. She would have to mention it later.

Removing his cufflinks, he caught her eye and said, almost suspiciously, “What are you smiling at?”

Her offending expression widened. “What else should I be smiling at?”

“Hmph.” But this time, at least, he did not take her to task for evading the question, and instead started unbuttoning the neck of his shirt. His movements were all crisp and businesslike, but she caught the look he darted at her out the tail of his eye, and a flush stood high on his cheekbones. Then, in one movement, he pulled the tails of his shirt free and drew the garment fully over his head.

“Oh,” she breathed.

There was no denying that Mr. Jaggers cut a most distinguished figure in his sober suits and well-starched collars, and she was pleasantly used to admiring his good looks: his dark eyes, his clean-angled features, his long limbs. But not like this, with such a heightened, immediate sense of anticipation. Unclothed, his long limbs seemed even longer, and there was a curious air of vulnerability about him now, far from his formidable professional front. His face, as he raised it, was quite still, his gaze steady - but watchful, awaiting her response.

The temptation was too powerful to resist. She closed the space between them in a step, pressing herself into the circle of his arms and letting her hands explore the surface of his skin - smooth, wonderfully smooth and warm - until he shuddered. She was pleased by that, but what commanded her attention was the leanness of his body beneath her touch, and the intricacy of the fine bones beneath his skin.

“You’re very thin, Jaggers,” she remarked, letting her fingers run teasingly up his back. “I think I shall have to speak with Mrs. Cratchit and tell her to put aside two of her famous pies for you next time.”

His only reply was a low sound of amusement in his throat; then he drew her into another kiss, catching her waist and pulling her fast against him. His skin was warm through the linen of her chemise, and it raised a yearning ache within her, a longing to be rid of the last encumbrances at last and simply be together, skin against skin. The same thought seemed to be in his head, too, for his hand moved over her hip, towards the rucked hem of her chemise.

At once, to her horror, she was overtaken by a sudden plunging sensation of dread, the shadow reaching for her again. Here it is, whispered a tremulous inner voice, in a moment I will have nowhere left to hide, and he’ll find me wanting at last.

Then, with a sudden flare of anger, she chased the thought away. _He loved her._ He had loved her all the time she was acting like a fool, he had loved her when she was mad. Surely there was nothing that could put him off now.

The whole thing lasted barely a second or two, but it was enough for him to sense her trepidation. But she forestalled his concern, and said firmly, “Let me.”

He gave a nod - an oddly formal gesture, considering their present situation, but somehow reassuring. Gathering both her courage and her hem at once, she drew a breath and drew her chemise over her head, letting it slide over her arms and onto the floor. 

Resisting the urge to shy away or cover herself, she held herself still, lifting her chin and meeting his eyes. They held hers for a second, then moved down, slowly, lingering over her every curve. She felt the weight of his scrutiny, and thought surely, surely now he must see her flaws, all her frailty and weakness, marked into the very lines of her body. But then his eyes returned to hers, and the look she saw in them robbed the breath from her. Desire, yes, but something else too, that burned just as fiercely: admiration - pride.

For all that, his voice was entirely matter-of-fact as he said, “I retract my previous statement, Miss Havisham. You’re not singular. You are astonishing.”

And all at once, she burst out laughing. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she brushed them away, stupid with relief, overflowing with love and gratitude. 

Now; she could hold herself away no longer. Taking his hands, she drew him forward. At the same time, she let herself fall back, and pulled him with her onto the bed. There came a moment or two of some rather ungainly negotiation, the shedding of the last stubborn items of his clothing - and then there was nothing, nothing in the world but the sensation of his skin against hers.

Once again, it was nothing like before. Then, for all the joy of discovery she had found at the time, there had been - so obvious in hindsight - a constant undercurrent of being led, even compelled. Now, neither of them led. They moved together, giving and taking in kind, learning the ways of each other’s bodies and discovering the places that made each other gasp and shudder. Jaggers’ hands were infinitely gentle, even reverent, as they moved over her, attentive to her pleasure, and for the first time she was glad that she already knew what happened between a man and a woman, and had some idea of what she enjoyed, so she could better guide him to the places that coaxed the pleasure from her. 

For her own part, she was enchanted by how confidingly Jaggers opened to her touch, by the feeling of him in her arms, so familiar and yet so new at the same time. She cherished every sound he made, every shiver, every admission of vulnerability that her touch drew forth from him. These were delightful, but they were nothing at all to the sudden arrested shudder he gave when her hands chanced to move over one particular spot, and the strange, bitten-off noise he made in her ear.

“Mr. Jaggers,” she breathed, as understanding came upon her, “you are ticklish.”

“I’m not,” he returned severely. “You can’t fix me with it.”

She was giddy with delight. This was very dangerous knowledge, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to use it wisely. Curiously, she stroked over the place again, and was rewarded with the same response as before. She went to try somewhere else, to see if she could find somewhere else that he was equally sensitive; but he anticipated her intent, and seized her hands, pinning them back against the sheets. She laughed, and strained playfully against him, but all thought of resistance was driven from her mind, and her laughter turned swiftly to a gasp as, one hand still laced with hers, he moved his other down the length of her body, over the swell of her breast, her stomach - then lower, to stroke her more intimately, until the pleasure rippled through her, and she was arching and gasping against him.

Flushed, she sank back against the sheets and smiled dazedly up at him. “That was terribly underhanded of you, sir.”

He merely smiled back, with a rather accomplished air, and stroked a tendril of hair from her brow. “It met with your approval, at least.”

“Barely.”

He had taken the edge off her desire, but had only heightened her longing for him. Feeling wonderfully bold, she let her hands wander, moving inevitably down, until she had him shuddering into her touch and burying a groan in the curve of her neck. She prolonged his torment just a little longer, then, when she judged she had him entirely at her mercy, pressed her advantage. She pushed at his chest, urging him back, until their positions were reversed and she found herself astride him. She smiled down at him, enjoying the sense of freedom, even of power, that her new position afforded her, and smiled more widely when he arched his eyebrow up at her. His hands went to her waist, steadying her, his thumbs moving over her hipbones. Lightly, she fluttered her fingertips over his chest, wondering still at how his breath ran shallow and his eyes grew dark at even her gentlest ministrations.

She leaned over him, her hair falling about them both in a soft dark curtain that shut everything else out, and pressed her mouth softly to his. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “I’ll be gentle with you, I promise.”

He smiled at that. “Not too gentle, I trust.”

One more kiss, like the sealing of a covenant. Then her hands were at his shoulders, bracing her weight, and his tightened on her waist, guiding her as she moved over him and took him inside her at last.

For a long moment she was still, transfixed by the first wild, sweet rush of pleasure. Then, beneath her, he gave a low groan, and the next thing she knew, they were moving together: carefully at first, then slowly, gradually, finding their rhythm, until they were moving as one, the heat flowing and eddying around them, between them, through them. What words passed between them now came breathless and broken; his breath was harsh in her ear, hot against her skin, and she murmured his name into their kisses, again and again. Desire washed through her in waves, each spreading to her every extremity, bringing her to the very edge before suddenly receding, only to return, sweeter and more intoxicating than the last.

“ _Amelia._ ” His voice broke on her name - almost a plea - and she reached blindly for him, kissing him desperately as their passion swelled and carried them both over the crest, leaving only a clear, bright sweetness in its wake.

For a long time afterwards, there was only the sound of their breathing, gradually softening. When at last Amelia drifted back into a reasonable awareness of herself, it was to find them comfortably entwined beneath the counterpane, neither of them inclined to move very much. Jaggers’ hand idly stroked her back, and she twisted in the crook of his arm until she was lying half over him, the better to look at him. His hand moved to her hair, smoothing the tangles.

“Was that more to your liking, madam?”

She pretended to consider. “I suppose so.” Running her finger along the line of his jaw, she added, “You are a very - singular gentleman, Mr. Jaggers.”

He smiled, then took her hand and kissed it. A touchingly chaste gesture, and she regarded him fondly. With his face open, his eyes soft, and his hair tousled, he looked as he should: young, handsome, unguarded. It seemed impossible to believe that there had been a night that she had lain here alone, trying desperately to convince herself that she couldn’t possibly be falling in love with him.

“Did you ever imagine we would end up like this?” she asked, after a time.

“No,” he replied, decidedly. “Never. You were a dream, Amelia, all a dream. Far out of my reach.” He stroked her face, tracing the shape of her features, as if he were not quite convinced of her being real now. Then, very drily, he added, “I just pray your father will forgive me.”

She turned her face into the pillow, but she was not quite in time to mask the rather undignified noise that escaped her at this. “Jaggers, you are determined to appall me.” But she sobered quickly enough. For all his wryness, he was quite grave.

“I think,” she said, as she stroked his cheek, “that if he knew how I feel now, he would agree with me that there is nothing to forgive.”

“And how do you feel?” he asked, perfectly serious now.

She considered, running her fingers through his. “I feel… new.” Realising how foolish it sounded, she blushed.

Foolish, because it seemed such an inadequate word to encompass her feelings. It couldn’t hope to express the depth of her happiness, nor the abiding sense of peace that now spread through her. It was silly, she knew, but she felt lighter, as if some old weight of shame had been lifted from her. The past could never be undone, but it had lost some more of its power. There was no disgrace here, only love and safety.

“It’s hard to explain.”

But Jaggers only shook his head, smiling. “I understand you entirely.”

She peered closely at him. He looked tired again, but in a very different way from before, and the heaviness she had perceived about him earlier had vanished. He, too, seemed lighter, and she knew he did understand.

They remained as they were for some time, curled together, exchanging odd touches and kisses, until his eyelids began to droop. She watched him with a soft smile, before nestling down herself, his arms warm about her, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath her palm, lulling her to sleep. This was something new, too. Her last sensible thought was that in the morning, she would have to have a quiet word with Mary about certain practical matters: vinegar, or perhaps alum-and-water, something like that. But that could wait.

Tomorrow, the world, and all its considerations, would lay claim to them both again. Newgate and the past would once more assume their inevitable places in the pattern of their lives. But for now, at least, there was only warmth, drowsy contentment, and quiet joy. Above all, there was the knowledge that when they woke in the morning, neither of them would be alone.


End file.
